


Built For It (Lolita Mix)

by okbutjusthisonce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Abuse, Angst, Breeding, Captivity, Dubious Consent, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Mpreg, Omega John Watson, Omega Verse, Pregnancy Kink, Sexual Abuse, Teen Pregnancy, Underage Sex, erotic birth, multiple pregnancy, scary totalitarian state
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okbutjusthisonce/pseuds/okbutjusthisonce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had not come to the Watson household with anything but professional intentions. But as he sat there and watched John compulsively run his hands over his swelling middle, he felt those intentions begin to twist and grow into something else entirely.</p><p>This is an alternate version of Built For It, starting with chapter 002.<br/>John is young, Sherlock is an adult. This story is quite different from the original.<br/>Yes, I'm this indecisive...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Built For It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/959795) by [okbutjusthisonce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okbutjusthisonce/pseuds/okbutjusthisonce). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson discovers at age 15 that he's a procreant omega; a "breeder".  
> Shortly after, men from the government show up to bring him to a new "boarding school" designed just for his kind...
> 
> This is the alternate version of Built For It.  
> John is young, Sherlock is an adult. This story is quite different from the original.  
> Yes, I'm this indecisive...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just adding the first chapter to this one so it's less confusing!

The first time John gave birth was in his bedroom, alone. It was two days after his fourteenth birthday. He'd hidden it well enough, under shapeless jumpers and his winter coat. Harry had left home by then, was living with Veronica and some older boys somewhere. Mum had checked out, her daily regimen of pills and Chardonnay keeping her safe and far away from her family.

Which left Mick, who knew full well what was going on.

John gave birth on a Saturday. His body had been uncomfortable for days; looking back as an adult he knew he’d been labouring, but as a scared and an inexperienced teenager he’d simply ignored the sensations as only a fourteen year old boy could.

That morning he’d woken to a wet burst between his legs and the contractions he’d been feeling intensified. John gripped the sheets and moaned, spread his legs as wide as he could manage.

He bucked his hips as he felt his body contracting and pushing, working to expel the life inside him. Only twenty minutes later John found himself shuddering uncontrollably as a large head crowned between his legs, spreading him wide open, lighting his body up with pleasure and pain. Gasping he dug his heels into the mattress and bore down, the urge to bear consuming him.

With a sudden burst of fluid, the baby’s head popped out of him, hung heavy between his splayed thighs. Almost immediately the shoulders followed along with the rest of the baby and another small flood of liquid. His back arched as a wave of pleasure and relief consumed him. John dropped his head back with an orgasmic groan. His perineum was already bulging with a second child.

The second baby seemed to be larger than the first one, and took longer. Caught on his pelvis, John lay there grunting and straining for some time. He writhed in pleasure as the weight of it pushed against his prostate. The pressure inside him was building again, the need to feel the baby come out becoming unbearable. At last he shifted positions, bringing himself to his knees. Gravity took hold then. As soon as the second baby’s head had crowned it dropped from him onto the mattress next to its sibling. John reached down towards them, but was stopped by the sensation of a third birth unfolding. He fell onto his back again, shaking and wailing quite loudly this time.

It emerged from him quickly; his flesh was stretched from the first two, was slick and wet. This one was a little faster and a little easier, and John’s pleasure had intensified. The door opened and Mick stood there in time to see John’s flesh smoothly yawning around the top of a head which quickly became a face, twisting out of the boy’s shuddering body.

“Christ.” he said as the third baby popped out. John whimpered, lay back on the pillow trembling as the afterbirth slid from him. His thighs were washed in red and semen covered his stomach. Mick began attending to the infants. They started to wail in succession.

“Three...on your first time,” he muttered. “I always pegged you for a little slut,” he told John as he handed the boy a towel to clean himself with, “but you’re more than that, you’re gonna be a hell of a breeder.”

John didn’t know what Mick did with them, and neither of them said anything to Mum.

Mick moved out not long after that. Mum was upset, looked at John suspiciously for months.

****

****

+++

 

 

Only six months later he was swollen again; this time obviously so. There was no hiding his belly, it was absurdly huge. Besides, his babies had been fathered by letting most of the rugby team shag him. Everyone knew this time; even Mum who went mad. She screamed at John, and hit him, and said she’d kick him out. So John left, and moved in with Harry and Veronica for a while. Only there were too many things that scared him there; drugs and angry young men who looked at him with savage intent. He left after a couple of weeks and moved back home.

Mick had also returned.

“What did I tell you?” He said as he ploughed his thick cock into John one evening, “You’re built for it, a little omega slut made to be bred. Look at how fucking big you are already.” John only whimpered as he felt Mick’s knot forced into him, filling, swelling, stretching, plugging.

He gave birth in the hospital only seven months after having the triplets. Five this time, each coming faster than the last. Every baby was quite large, John had made a gang of rugby players to-be. This time his swollen body was consumed by pleasure for more of it; John groaned and writhed through the pain, orgasming from being stretched open and pushing out babies. After a short four hours it was all over and he was feeling oddly empty. They gave him one of his children to hold for a little while, even though they’d all already been adopted out. It helped John with the emptiness, somewhat. 

 

 

+++ 

 

The next day a social worker came.

John wasn’t a troublemaker; he didn’t get into fights. He had excellent grades and even an aptitude for the sciences. But he was clearly at-risk.

“Boarding school.” grunted Mick with amusement. He held John’s head back to get a better angle. “A fertile little cocksucker like you… I give it two weeks before you’re knocked up again.”

It only took five days, actually, and a senior student, who was on his way out of school and up in the world. They were both expelled when John began showing too much to hide it - only three months after the hospital delivery, he looked ready to give birth again. His social worker was upset.

“What happened to the contraception I gave you?” she asked.

“...Forgot it.” he said after a long pause. He stared out the window at nothing.

She peered at him sceptically, looked at his growing belly which seemed to be on its own accelerated timetable.

“Have you scheduled an ultrasound?” she asked him.

“After this.” John was never very comfortable talking to adults.

“I want you to take a DNA test, just to make sure you’re not a procreant. I’ll schedule it for after your ultrasound.”

“Okay.” John shrugged.

His social worker looked at him solemnly.

“If you test positive, it will open up more options for what the state will do for you, John. Okay?”

John nodded, his gaze focused somewhere outside. His hands roamed the surface of his distended middle. It felt good.

 

 

+++

 

 

The test came back a roaring, unambiguous positive, but seemed hardly necessary after the ultrasound. John was carrying eight this time, in three separate amniotic sacs, with three slightly different due dates. John had gotten pregnant three times in the space of a month or so, his body housing one brood on top of the other. He would bear one lot, then with some weeks in between birth the next, and then the next. Only procreant omegas could do that. The social worker apologised to him; she told him she felt she should have spotted it sooner. She also gave him new contraceptives.

“I’d give you suppressants, but at this point I’ve been told I’m not allowed.” she said. John couldn’t quite understand why she seemed so angry.

“Don’t make any more babies until you have to, John.” she told him as they parted ways.

He nodded at his feet, hands still wrapped around his belly.

 

 

+++

 

  

Mick was pleased to be right of course. He gloated while he fingered John, wanked and spilled onto John’s huge swollen belly. Mum was cold to John but preoccupied; she was having a baby of her own with Mick soon.

 

 

 

+++

 

 

The men from the state showed up two days after John’s test results. An old one and a younger one. The brochures they had were printed on expensive, heavy paper with bright colours. They promised things John knew his own school would never get. That he’d never have in his life any other way.

“It’s rather like military school, crossed with a high end prepatory one, if one thinks about it.” Said the older man to Mum.

“Seems a bit posh for our family.”

“It _will_ give John a better future, if that’s what you mean. More options, an... environment conducive to success.” The man said looking at Mum’s glass concernedly.

“May I trouble you for a drink of …water? ”

“John, get this man some water.” Mum watched John do as he was told.

“Stop touching yourself.” She snapped. John dropped his hand from the surface of his enourmous stomach. Mum turned to the man again.

“He’s got a problem with keeping his legs closed, as you can see. If there are other boys there...”

“Our entire programme is geared towards keeping young procreants safe and in control of their own bodies. I assure you, we are well prepared to help your son.”

“I suppose it’s why you’re here to begin with. Because he’s a breeder.”

“Well, we do prefer to the term ‘procreant’, but yes.”

“How many does he have to have to pay for this?”

The older man cleared his throat.

“If you refer to page four of the legal documents we sent over, section A1 clearly states that the schooling is one hundred per cent funded, if John is accepted. The production of new citizens for the state is an optional programme to offset certain tax penalties…”

As they talked, John caught the younger man looking at him. He reminded John of his science teacher, Mr. Benedict. He had pale eyes that were kind and John thought, a little sad. He smiled at John. John looked away.

“...and a minimum of four years service, which will put him age 19, which I’d reckon is just about perfect. He’d have all the necessary training to go into military service, else he’ll be of legal age then and can do whatever he chooses with his life…”

John knew what his mother was thinking before she picked up the pen. The younger man cleared his throat. He hadn’t said a word the whole time.

“Before you sign, Mrs Watson, I’d like to interject and have a word or two with John himself.”

“Oh. Alright.” she said. “why?” She looked between the two men, puzzled at the new, conflicting information.

“It’s imperative for us that the student be willing and dedicated to the programme, You’ll see that on page 246, section G6.” The younger man seemed to be addressing his counterpart, but Mum didn’t notice. She shuffled the enormous pile of papers helplessly. The two men stared at each other.

“Quite right.” the older one said after a moment. “Mr Holmes here is amazing, has a photographic memory, he does. Knows these documents inside and out.”

“Oh, that must be nice for shopping.” said Mum.

 

+++

 

 

John packed his things for a second time, though there wasn’t very much he wanted to take with him. He thought he’d never come back if he didn’t have to. The interview with Mr. Holmes had been brief but interesting. It was made of questions no one had asked him before.

“So long mate, try not to pop too many out in the first year.” said Mick. He gave a wink and a quick pinch to John’s bum when no one else was looking.

“Behave, and don’t forget where you came from.” Mum told him from the divan. She was feeling ill again that morning from the baby.

John waited outside, rubbing his belly nervously in the early morning air.

When the shiny black car pulled up, he was surprised; he’d been expecting a minicab to take him to the train station.

A driver got out of the front and opened the back door for him. John piled his pregnant body into the sunken posh vehicle with some difficulty.

“Hello, John.” said Mr. Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes he could admit to himself that he’d wanted the boy from the moment he'd stepped into the dreary council housing flat. That before he'd seen John, before he'd even known his name, his body had made a choice. The scent alone was enough. It flooded his brain and sent a charge straight from his crown down to his loins; it was an odd bouquet of youth and sudden maturity, of softness and burgeoning strength. It carried the promise of something transformative.

The scent was so strong it permeated the flat, cut through Sherlock's custom made extra-strength suppressants and even stronger personality. A part of himself he'd only been in touch with briefly - at the boy's age in fact - was violently roused after decades of slumber.

Had he been a normal omega Sherlock thought he'd still have been drawn to John. The boy seemed largely beaten down from the outside but there were things about him that suggested another side to the story. He was strong and smart, Sherlock was sure of it.

Sherlock had not come to the Watson household with anything but professional intentions. But as he sat there and watched John compulsively run his hands over his swelling middle, he felt those intentions begin to twist and grow into something else entirely.

He’d cancelled the minicab pickup immediately. Granted, it might raise a red flag, make things more difficult regarding the case but...

“Hello, John.” He’d started off calmly enough.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

John answered him just as calmly. If the boy was surprised by any of it, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.  The tinted partition cut the vehicle in half nicely, making things quite cozy. The back seat quickly filled with John’s scent.

“I thought I’d come by to collect you, and have a few words on the way to the train.”

“Okay.”

“I’m... I'm concerned you don’t know what lies ahead of you.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock suddenly felt he may have made a slight miscalculation, that perhaps he ought to have planned better; John's pheromones were already affecting him dramatically in such a small space. Whatever he'd planned to say was quickly being destroyed and jettisoned. His cock was already at attention, large and twitching obviously in his trousers as his body demanded he take John there and then. Sherlock's eyes slid closed as tried to focus and speak.

“The institution's not exactly as one might think based on the information given thus far.”

“Oh _._ ” Somehow John seemed to understand what Sherlock was telling him. Perhaps it was only that he was accustomed to disappointment.

His hands continued to move nervously over his huge belly, the sight of it agitating Sherlock further. Although it hadn’t been very long, John was noticeably bigger since the home visit; Sherlock could see the boy’s jumper straining against his growing middle. He needed new clothes.

“I can tell you're not... I mean... You're special... I ...want to help you.” Sherlock said, not entirely sure of his own meaning. There was a long pause as John looked out the window.

“Okay.” he replied finally, turning back towards Sherlock. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Come here." He felt his nostrils flaring and a wave of dizzy bliss as John simply obeyed. The boy allowed himself to be pulled close, nearly onto Sherlock's lap. Sherlock couldn't stop inhaling deeply, drinking John in. He realized he was actually salivating as his hand slipped inside the dark blue track pants John wore. Mere moments later he’d somehow worked his way inside of John, surprising himself with his own mercenary behavior.

Sherlock heard John gasp as his long fingers explored the tight warm flesh, were enveloped by a space that was soft and wet and sent what was left of his rational brain far away. His other hand had wrapped around the back of John's neck, held the boy's face to his own. His mouth moved to the underside of the boy’s jaw, over the scent gland he knew was there. John's eyes had dropped to half-mast, he breathed hard and trembled. The wetness between his legs was increasing, absurdly so. His scent became stronger, smothering.

"There's ...not much... I can give you now..." Sherlock heard himself saying through his own ragged breath, "but this ... this is ... I should… it should... protect you a little..."

He'd not known what was coming next; any more than John might have. It would be forever that Sherlock would ponder the disconnect between his mind and body that day.

All he really knew in that moment was how good biting John felt. Taking claim, John's blood and pheromones in his mouth, the two of them suddenly _needing_ to press into each other. All he knew was there was nothing better than the sound of John crying out softly, suddenly grasping at Sherlock, clawing, embracing him with intense desperation. Nothing. Except perhaps turning John roughly; and then pushing deep inside him, knowing he was breeding the already heavily pregnant boy, moaning and filling him with seed. He did it twice, moments before the station rolled into sight.

 

+++

 

John found an empty compartment and sat down right away. Since getting on the train he'd been keeping his legs closed as best he could; he didn't want to lose what Mr. Holmes had put inside him, what was left of it.

He positioned his body awkwardly across the bench and rolled himself back heavily; tilting his pelvis, elevating his legs. The train started to move and he began to cry again. He couldn't help it; his… he... was getting farther and farther away. John had a new set of thoughts and feelings he didn’t know what to do with. He only knew he needed to be near - to be with the one who would make him feel safe and protected... Needed…

His hand slid between his legs instinctively. He left it there, covering the soft, wet opening. He cried and alternated between gently stimulating the already spent flesh and his cock, as an image of Mr. Holmes suddenly came to mind.

John wept softly as the city turned to countryside.

He felt it more clearly than he'd felt anything in a long time.

He needed his alpha.

 

+++

 

Sherlock watched the train disappear.

 

It was taking all of his will not to run after it. Peeling John off him as the boy clung and began to protest then cry was the hardest thing he'd ever done. He felt as though he might pass out.

"No!" John had screamed over and over through his tears. "No! No! No! No!"

Some of the strength Sherlock deduced existed suddenly made itself known as John resisted the agents that were there to put him on the train, get him to the school.

He gave enough of a fight - impressive considering his condition - that they were ready to sedate him. Or perhaps do more. Sherlock had seen it happen before. He stepped in quickly, allowing John to attach himself again.

"You have to go now." Sherlock said quietly.

"No."

"John, we can't fight this here. I'll find you, I promise."

The sound of soft misery that came from the boy would haunt him forever, he thought.

"Please." John finally whispered.

"No." Sherlock somehow gathered enough strength to say, "Do as I tell you."

 

Sherlock watched the train disappear.

 

He'd had no intention for any of it to happen. But it had, and now his brand new bond mate was being swallowed whole by an impossible system.

As the train rounded a final bend and finally slipped from view, Sherlock was hit by a sensation he didn't often experience.

He doubled over, hands on knees, and began to vomit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I need your help."  
> The rare sentiment and odd tone from his younger brother immediately sent a chill through Mycroft.  
> A low moan followed the panicked words. Something was very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with extra angst!

He woke with a start, the train jerking him uncomfortably. John slowly sat himself up, shifting the weight of his stomach onto his lap. There was a cold draft of air on the underside his exposed belly where his clothes were riding up. John struggled to slide his jumper back into place. He sat up straighter then, pulled at his clothing, but it didn’t fit anymore.

His stomach had swollen while he'd slept - dramatically in just the past couple of hours. It pushed outwardly; straining his now too-small clothing. John felt very heavy; bigger than he'd ever been before. He ran his hands over his stomach and shuddered in pleasure. The surface of it was hyper sensitive.

He felt a familiar uncomfortable rolling inside that told him he’d be having the first litter soon. John imagined there was already a new one growing in him, put there by his alpha; one that was making him big, fast. His body was hurrying the others along; making space for the new growing babies, for his alpha's. The thought was a comforting one. He rubbed the surface of his stomach. A mild contraction made him moan softly. John lay his head against the window, tried to relax.

He'd just dozed off again only to be woken by the end of a hard contraction and the familiar sensation of his womb opening up. His legs had parted wide and he was sitting in a wet warm patch. John shuddered uncontrollably; he was gearing up for another proper contraction. He began to breathe heavily as the pressure inside him built.

When it came he couldnt help but cry out in pain. Within a minute the first baby was sitting heavily in his pelvis. The weight of it made him want to push it out, to feel it drop from him. He felt his hips grudgingly hinging wider, slowly opening to accommodate the birth. John began panting; gripping his knees he struggled to get his legs further apart. His body was lit with sensation; still he craved stimulation.

John rocked himself back and fourth, undulating his hips, rubbing himself against the seat and grunting in self gratification. He wished his alpha was there so he could be impaled on his lap instead. He groaned loudly as another contraction overtook him; this one ending in pleasure and to his surprise, the feeling of the baby's head stretching him, crowning quickly. Despite himself he began crying out as he started to orgasm in waves with each little push.

The baby moved through him. It's head emerged smoothly, popping out in a sudden burst of wet pleasure.

The seat of his sweatpants bulged with the head that was sticking out of him. John was just about to pull the sweatpants off when another strong contraction gripped him and he dropped the rest of the baby into them. It strained against the soft fabric, until John managed to raise himself shakily, and pull it's wriggling form out. He cleared its nose and mouth, watched it squeal and held it to his chest even as he felt the second one beginning to come.

  
+++

"I need your help."

The rare sentiment and odd tone from his younger brother immediately sent a chill through Mycroft. A low moan followed the panicked words. Something was very wrong.

"Where are you? Are you drunk?"

"Doesn't matter..."

It took Sherlock two tries before Mycroft could begin to understand what had happened.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"You must find him for me, help me get him out."

"Sherlock, you know that's nearly impossible."

"Not for you." Sherlock growled, quite literally.

"You're working a case right now! You've seen how formidable the system is-"

"Yes I'm working a dull, depressing case as a favor to you that lead me to this! Now I demand you help me!" Sherlock's voice had risen uncharareriatcally in volume, pitch and panic.

"Even if we do manage to locate him, the state all but owns him now..."

"He's MINE!" Screamed Sherlock abruptly on the other end of the line. Mycroft's eyes darted to the monitor in front of him. It always took a bit longer to locate Sherlock than other people, what with all his clever tactics. For the first time their little game took on a dreadful possibility space as Mycroft found himself wishing his brother weren't quite so brilliant. He sounded genuinely ill...

"Sherlock, tell me where you are; let me send a car." Mycroft began as calmly as he could, but there was no longer anyone there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When a bonding occurs, if the procedure is interrupted or partially broken, the chemicals created by the body are not released properly, they instead build up… and the system becomes septic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling impatient to post...

"Is that water warm?"

"Is was at some point."

Mycroft's worried gaze rested on his brother's sorry form. Sherlock was downright gaunt; his long arms draped outside the bathtub listlessly. The end of a cigarette smoldered in his left hand. Most alarmingly he was battered and bruised, cut up as though he'd been through a war, or at the very least a large street brawl.

"Have you eaten anything these past five days?"

"When a bonding occurs, if the procedure is interrupted or partially broken, the chemicals created by the body are not released properly, they instead build up… and the system becomes septic. Symptoms include but are not limited to disorientation, nausea, and vomiting. Eating is hardly an option."

Mycroft stepped into the room. He pulled a footstool to the side of the bath and sat down. He glanced at what he assumed Sherlock's main point of agitation was.

"That looks uncomfortable." He said.

Sherlock took a long drag, his eyes rolling shut.

"...further symptoms for alphas include but are not limited to aggression, wanderlust, and priapism. It is, but it’s getting better as the suppressants leave my system. Less for my body to fight.”

He killed the cigarette, dropped his head back, eyes still shut.

"Symptoms specific to omegas include but are not limited to social withdrawal, a lowered immune system, and infertility. In both genders a state of general emotional turmoil and depression are common."

The shadows of the late afternoon swallowed the smoke that curled from his lips as he spoke.

"How long have I been here?"

"Approximately twelve hours. Following day two we were looking everywhere but Baker Street."

Sherlock nodded very slightly. His eyes slid open. Red rimmed and glazed, they reminded Mycroft of a colleague he once knew who'd contracted malaria in the Amazon. The man had walked around for days, oblivious to -or perhaps in denial over- his sorry state.

"What have I done." Said Sherlock suddenly. The sentiment had an odd flat tone to it, it hung there between them: rhetorical, without emotion.

“Actually. You’ll have to go over it again with me, I couldn’t understand quite everything on the phone.”

“I suppose I was completely incoherent.”

“You were confused, absolutely, and slurring your words quite badly. I did get the basic gist, I believe…”

Mycroft took out a thin stack of folders from his valize.

“You’ve found him.”

“I’ve narrowed it down, based on what you’ve told me. Now that you're a bit better, we can work together and filter these candidates further…”

Mycroft jumped back as Sherlock suddenly heaved himself up from the tub, sloshing water everywhere. He winced as he got a good look at his brother’s right side.

“Your ribs…”

“That,” said Sherlock bracing himself on Mycroft’s shoulder as he grasped for a robe, “that was a car. Or so I think. I seem to recall shattering a windshield with my body.”

“I have a medical team standing by.”

“Good. I’ll need to gather as much strength as I can.”

“Indeed. Internally bleeding to death wouldn't do you or your omega much good just now.” said Mycroft as he took his brother’s arm gently.

Sherlock gave a small painful, laugh.

“Mummy would never forgive you…”

“That as well…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Though obviously extreme, this kind of thing is not uncommon to see as part of broken bond syndrome."

_"Nearly done, love!"_

_Under the cold fluorescent glow she works with quick, sure movements that agitate him; touching him firmly, cleaning his wounds, piercing his flesh as she sutures it matter of factly, her hands all over him as she bandages him up. Agitating. As fast as she is, he feels like he is underwater, slow and helpless as reality ripples around him. Agitating. Agitating. Perhaps it's the drugs they gave him. He can’t work it out. He can really only think of one thing anyway. She constantly interrupts it, his vision, his focus, his thoughts of his omega; she is in his space then out of it, then suddenly too close again, her scent assaulting him. Aggressive. Aggressive. It reaches him through it all; through the hospital, her scrubs, the neutralizing wash she's bathed in, the acrid antibacterial cleaner on her hands. He can smell her sex, her mate, her life. A part of him that's normally far more active drunkenly builds a comprehensive picture of that life for a brief moment. He can smell her family. He can see her family. John. John. John... John.John.John.John.John.John.John.John!_

_She moves into his space again, pulls back, comes close. He hears an animal growling softly somewhere. Sherlock's head follows the movement of her hands, the light reflected off her wedding band intrigues him._

_"There we are, Mr. Holmes, that's better, isn't it?" She says patting his cheekbone._

_Sherlock looks at her for a dazed, icy moment, an odd light in his glassy eyes._

_Ever so calmly, he pushes his face up to hers and bites down._

+++

The nurse's scream was nothing less than blood curdling.

Mycroft had only heard it's like once or twice in all his life, and he'd seen quite a lot over the course of his career.

Despite what protocol and experience would have him do, he charged into the room where they were finishing stitching up his brother.

Mycroft took in the horrible scene with a glance, the shock of the images burning into his minds' eye instantly.

He'd never forget this, he knew - the woman retreated into a corner, terrified, screaming, one wet, red hand clasped to her raw, gaping cheek. The two orderlies on his brother, struggling to hold him on the floor as he writhed and snarled like a wild beast. The blood that seemed to be everywhere - the nurse's face, her hands, her uniform - smeared across the floor tiles and finally, mostly it seemed, on Sherlock's angry mouth.

+++

"Though obviously extreme, this kind of thing is not uncommon to see as part of broken bond syndrome." The doctor told him later. The sedatives, by then, had finally done their work.

"Your brother's system is full of toxins." She said, "His brain is inflamed. It's just going to be touch and go for a while."

"He was fine not an hour ago! Aside from his injuries of course, he was absolutely coherent!"

A  feeling of helplessness crouched on the edge of Mycroft’s psyche, threatening, waiting to pounce.

"It's not uncommon a patient will exhibit a range of behavior as the body’s hormones fluctuate. They're reacting with the toxins. The toxins in turn inspire hormonal fluctuations." The doctor was young but unapologetic, despite Mycroft’s position of power.

“So he's stuck in a feedback loop. What are you doing about it?" Mycroft demanded.

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly. “Do you know how he got this way? Where the omega is? The hormones in his system are quite strong...”

Mycroft’s own features shifted, steeled as he stared back at her. The doctor looked at him a moment longer, then sighed in surrender.

"We’re treating the encephalitis with a combination of steroids and anti-inflammatories.” She said, “Outside of that, the best course of action is to try and keep him stable, calm, let his body do the work. His endocrine system’s a mess, not to mention his physical injuries. We're just going to have to keep him sedated and well monitored until his body can naturally detox and heal." She turned to go, stopped and looked back at him.

“He’s very lucky. Most people wouldn’t have survived this.”

“He’s very strong.” Mycroft said. The doctor gave a curt nod and left.

Mycroft looked despondently at his baby brother's bruised and harrowed face. Drugged into unconsciousness his mouth lay slack, a thin trail of saliva soaking the pillow beneath. Sherlock’s teeth and tongue were still lightly stained pink. The monitors he was hooked to beeped dutifully.

“What’s happened to you...” Mycroft wondered in a hushed tone, “Sherlock, what’s _happening_ to you?”

He sat and watched his brother’s eyelids flicker erratically.

****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a new installment. Let me know your thoughts people...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What I don’t understand,” sneers Anderson from across the aisle, “Is why you put him on this train in the first place. _That_ was your chance.”

_The ambient sound of the train sets him on edge. Full of low rumbles and sharp squeaks it’s a Shepard tone that assaults his mood relentlessly. The car is dark and uncertain, floor lights the only thing that guide him as he paces up and down its length. Outside the windows there is only the black of night._

_Sherlock holds the infant close, under his jaw, bounces it, determined to keep it from crying. It is warm and alive. It feels vulnerable, precious. It smells wonderful, like John._

_“I don’t think you’re ready for this.” Says Lestrade. He’s walking behind Sherlock, uncomfortably near, has been for ages. Annoying really. They reach the end of the car just as it jerks hard, causing Sherlock to lurch forward along with it; threatening to send him over, baby and all into the seat on his left. The passenger in it laughs at his moment of near disaster, then smiles. It is Sally Donovan. Sherlock scowls._

_“I’m not listening to you, you may as well not bother.” He says straightening himself up. The baby gurgles softly._

_“Why not?” Asks Greg, nearly in his ear._

_“This is a dream. You’re simply my subconscious. Following along with all my guilt, my fear, my anxiety manifested.”_

_“Sounds like a good reason to listen then, mate.”_

_“Must you stay so close? It makes turning around very awkward.”_

_“Afraid it can’t be helped…” Greg smiles as Sherlock squeezes himself past, begins to head back down the car. Lestrade catches his arm._

_“Here’s a thought. Why turn at all?”_

_Sherlock stares._

_“Go to the next car.” He says. Greg nods. Before he can say anything Sherlock has shoved past him, opened the connecting doors. An icy blast of air hits him. The noise of the train is unbearable. The world shakes violently, shrouded in darkness. The baby cries._

_Sherlock squints into the deep black before stepping back. The door slides shut. He shushes the crying child urgently. Greg shakes his head._

_“I knew you weren’t ready.”_

_“What’s there?”_

_“Why ask me? If I’m only a manifesta-“_

_“Yes yes,” Sherlock snaps impatiently, “but it does make you a direct connection to my wiser self. You know what lies ahead; you can tell me without my having to do something so predictable and contrived as to move forward through this metaphor.”_

_“I see, so you’re too clever to explore yourself in the what- dull, usual way.”_

_“There is nothing usual about me.”_

_“Or humble for that matter!” Greg mutters, “…But then, I suppose its true enough. You're unusual. For instance, you don’t want children, or even a relationship…” He reaches to pull the infant from Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock stumbles back in alarm, shielding what's his. He hears an animal growling. It startling, even more so when he realizes the noise is coming from himself._

_“What I don’t understand,” sneers Anderson from across the aisle, “Is why you put him on this train in the first place. That was your chance.”_

_“I… I didn’t think -”_

_“Didn’t think! What kind of genius are you?”_

_“I didn’t …know what I was doing; I didn’t mean to - t-to…”_

_“Didn’t know! Didn’t know!” Shouts Anderson, “Bloody hell, that's a first! What was that meant to be then? A quick bit of enjoyment at the expense of a child?”_

_“More than one child really.” Says Lestrade sadly. He slips his finger into the baby’s hand._

_“-worse if you ask me, you bonded with him! And abandoned him! You were in the process of disposing of him, weren’t you? You're no better than those others who've used him - and now -”_

_"No... It was a decent idea." Says Lestrade, "... just half executed… you have to do better now.”_

_“Shame how much you've botched it up... for him... for you both..." Sally chimes in._

_“And now, and now…”_

_“Stop it. I’m going to find him. This dream is completely gratuitous…”_

_“Is it, mate? You haven’t told Mycroft the half of it…”_

_You’re gonna be a daddy!” shouts Sally in sudden glee, “ha! The great intellectual loner, finally caught! Tangled up in his own biology like a common ape…”_

_“You need to work faster. Terrible things will happen.” Lestrade's fingers dig into Sherlock's arm with urgency._

_“ …I can’t wait to see this! Can’t wait to tell everyone what you’ve done…” Anderson jumps to his feet._

_“Enough!” roars Sherlock suddenly. The train lurches again, throwing Anderson back into his seat. Sherlock closes his eyes, listens to its music. He thinks he hears John crying from somewhere far away… in the next car perhaps. He staggers back to the door._

_“Are you sure you want to do that?” whispers Sally. Her face is pale and drawn in terror. Sherlock touches the cold metal surface in front of him. The icy darkness slides open before him._

_“It’s better than staying here with you lot.” He exclaims, and pushes himself through._

****

It’s cold when he opens his eyes.

****

John's dream was warmer; his alpha was in it, searching for him, calling his name. The sound of it making him feel good, at least in the beginning.

John sat up slowly. His cot was one of many in a long grey room. The once white sheets on it were thin, but he still gathered them around him. The others were sleeping, their forms barely visible in the low light.

_He’d been dreaming of the train again. He didn’t like to think about it when awake, but often when he slept the memories were there whether he liked it or not._

_They had come so quickly, those first four. His body had contracted hard, had forced them out one after another, making him cry out with strained pleasure. So fast; they'd come so fast. The short time between each birth had overwhelmed him; it had been hard work and too much stimulation, and then the anxiety from trying to attend to the infants themselves. Only minutes after baby number one was born, his flesh was growing and opening again. He was struggling and contracting, his womb tightening, muscles pushing. He couldn’t spread his legs as wide as he needed to, for his track pants were tangled around his ankles. Even then the panic and pain of giving birth was mixed with building waves of natural orgasmic pleasure that made him wail._

_The second child was gigantic. John fully felt the girth and weight of its body as it began to emerge from him; its enormous head putting an intense pressure on his prostate. It was too large and became lodged between his legs, skin stretched around it painfully. For what seemed like forever, he was fixed that way, an enormous head sticking partially out of him. John whimpered, gasped, screamed, panted. His body was building towards another climax. After several long and terrible confusing moments, John felt his entire body spasm with pleasure and the baby suddenly twisted forward, head then shoulders breaking free. Its arms sprang wide as in a burst of orgasmic relief it popped out from between John’s legs. John expelled the rest of it’s fat body with one long push. His cock and balls throbbed, he was erect, then climaxing, then erect again with each birth._

_Trembling, he managed to get his track pants off and spread his coat beneath him. It was all that separated the newborn children from the floor. He was already feeling a third birth upon him, so he'd rolled back onto his coccyx, tried hard to open himself wider, to work with his body’s demands. He still felt impossibly heavy, the need to release the tremendous pressure inside relentless. He found himself struggling to breathe but breathing too hard, on the verge of tears as another child shoved its way through his tight cervix and squeezed heavily into his pelvis. His belly rolled with contractions and he bucked his hips with them in pleasure reflexively. His body was working fully on its own volition; whether or not he pushed, whether or not he wished, a third child was coming out of him there and then. He moaned and dropped his head back as the baby’s head did what he could not and spread his body wide open._

_The terrible pressure endured. John grunted and shook with the continued need to expel the mass of children that he'd managed to get stuffed with._

_The fourth was nearly too much for him at that point. His body was exhausted; vibrating with pleasure and pain, well out of his control. His limbs had become heavy. He dug his heels to the floor, working, breathing, trying to keep his legs spread apart. He had a vague recollection of sobbing as it twisted then tumbled out of him with a slick wet sound. John gasped in relief as a torrent of liquid followed. For a moment there was an easing of the terrible pressure he'd endured._

_And then..._

_His waters had broken again but something was wrong and John had known it, but didn't know what it was, or what to do about it and things were happening so fast... The pleasure was gone. It was replaced by a sudden, searing pain as baby number five began to move through him. There seemed to be a lot more wetness and something was terribly wrong…_

_A woman had opened the door to the compartment, presumably hearing his cries. She screamed at the sight of the boy struggling with a far too large stomach and a thick tangle of umbilical cords leading from between his spread legs to the litter of squirming babies around him._

_John had cried out again, clawed at his inner thighs trying to make himself open even wider. It was as though he couldn’t spread his legs wide enough, he needed to get the fifth baby out, to stop the white hot agony that was consuming his body. His hands lost their grip, came away slippery with blood. He couldn’t breathe. He smelled blood._

_John cried out wordlessly for his alpha._

_Feeling the third amniotic sack burst inside him was the last thing he'd remembered before blacking out…_

_**** _

John looked across the dark room, listened to the sounds of others breathing, sleeping restlessly; many having nightmares of their own. Someone at the far end was crying softly.

He wrapped the sheets around himself even tighter and lay back down. John curled into a ball, shivering, hoping this time to dream only of his alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we switch to John for a bit... next chapter, the "School"... poor baby...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You have an alpha?"
> 
> "Yes," Said John, "look..." He pulled the hospital gown away from his shoulder. The skin was still bruised, broken, and red. An unmistakable bite mark was at the centre of it all.

“Give it.” The dark haired boy held his hand out, a menacing look in his eyes.

John watched the scrawny kid hand over the foil square, a look of helpless longing his only form of protest. He was a little younger and much smaller than John, blonde, and very sickly looking. The dark haired boy snacthed the goods and promptly pushed him down.

The small boy scrambled over the hard floor and behind his cot. Dozens of beds sat in clusters throughout the large concrete structure. Sunlight fell through windows forty feet above, revealing lazy morning dust. The warehouse was still cold, even in the daytime. John shivered, then sneezed. The sound caught the menacing boy's attention.

"You too." John barely blinked as the foil packet he'd been given earlier was snatched from his fingers. The bully stared at John. He was rough looking, though also quite thin.  A bright pink scar ran from under his jaw to his neck and down his shoulder. His eyes were bright and angry.

John looked back and through the other boy with an uninterested gaze.

The boy held the packet in front of John's face, shook it. He reminded John of some of Mick's friends from the pub. John shivered again.

"What's wrong with you?" The boy sneered in John's face, "are you ill? Don't you want this? Hey? Hey?"

His voice echoed in the stark room. Around them others had stopped to watch.

"He's new." The small kid said quietly from behind.

"Shut up, Tommy. He's a bit mental is what he is. Are you a bit mental?" The boy shouted, "or just a fucking shite!?" His voice grew louder and angrier with every word. "Holding back your rations when I'm here means an arse kicking!" He bellowed.

"He doesn't know! He didn't hold back..."

"Do you want his beating then?" The dark haired boy turned aggressively away from John, menacing the small boy, then abruptly back again, this time bringing himself nose to nose.

"Can't you talk, new boy?"

John looked back, silent and detached. The air was still. At last the bigger boy scowled in disgust.

"Spastic." he spit and walked away.

The others drifted back to whatever it was they'd been doing. A soft murmur of young voices filled the room. John and the small boy were left to their own affairs.

"Don't worry, I've got some hidden." The boy whispered in John's ear. John blinked in surprise. He watched the boy slide frail fingers into the metal frame of his bed.

"Food rations aren't very nice, I know, but you get used to them." Said the boy, “and Ren doesn't take them all the time, so I save them. Ren can be pretty nasty, but sometimes he's alright. He helped me once."

He looked at John hopefully.

"I'm Tommy Cooke." He urged. He slipped one of two mangled packets into John's hand. John looked at the boy's desperate, sickly face. He handed the squashed ration back.

"Thank you, but I don't need it." John said, "My alpha's coming for me."

Tommy's eyes widened and although it seemed impossible, he became even paler.

"You have an alpha?"

"Yes," Said John, "look..." He pulled the hospital gown away from his shoulder. The skin was still bruised, broken, and red. An unmistakable bite mark was at the centre of it all. Tommy gaped at it, amazed.

"He's coming for me," John said calmly, "he promised. I won't be here long."

Tommy said nothing, only stared in wonder and pressed both rations into John's hand.

+++

 

_This is the train. He's sure of it. The one he put John on, the one that he's betrayed them both with. He tells himself regret is a waste of energy, the only thing now is to fix it in the present, to alter their future._

_The cars are strange, run down and stuffy. They're an odd mix of the old kind he would take to school and a cattle car. Elaborate carved wood and wine couloirs upholstery mesh with cruel metal partitions._

_He can't bring himself to look closely, keeps himself moving forward. Still, he's dreadfully aware. The cars are full of children._

_"Yours." Lestrade is back, at least as a voice in his ear, a moist guilty whisper that can't be disposed of. "Yours," he says again, "by the dozen."_

_"Shut up." He snaps in agitation, and walks faster. The infant he was holding is gone but the sound of John crying is stronger than before. John is crying for him, he understands it clearly now, can hear it, can feel it. The wordless plea beckons him on, makes him double his resolve._

_He will ignore the dream, move through it, he will find John and then he will be free..._

_"You can't ignore this, mate. It's everything.”_

_He opens the door to the next car. Sunlight, icy and cruel assaults him. Wind takes his breath away. A barren wasteland surrounds him. The next carriage is exactly one ruined, broken car away. The wreckage is half there, tenuously connecting the front of the train to the back. It seems about to disintegrate, impossible to cross, an irreparable damaged link in a chain._

_He feels more than hears the call. His focus shifts from the broken car to the one it tows._

_John. John is there, in the doorway behind glass, looking at him. Calling, pleading. His heart pounds as he instinctively calls back to his lost, suffering bondmate._

_“You’ve gotta fix this,” says Lestrade, “if you wanna be with him.”_

_Sherlock turns to the D.I. with a new realisation._

_“This. This isn’t a train, is it.” He says._  

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is a dream, but it's more than a dream," John said.  
> "Very good," The voice said. It had become a bit clearer.  
> "What else?"  
> "It's - it's our bond. It's a space we're connected through,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we all just accept that I'm working at the same pace as the BBC?  
> Great, thanks.

"Why can't I see you?" John asked miserably.

The familiar voice crackled in response through the telephone.

"I explain this to you nearly every night," it said, "try to remember, try to think, John."

John looked around. He was alone in the old fashioned train compartment, the antique receiver attached to an endless, black line that disappeared into the ceiling then came back down on the other side of the wall, a tangled mess. It stretched all the way down the corridor, laced about the walls like a great spider's web. John turned to the windows. The outside world had been swallowed by a deep blue sea. He stared into it and found it went on forever. Everything was both familiar and alien.

"This is a dream, but it's more than a dream," John said.

"Very good," The voice said. It had become a bit clearer.

"What else?"

"It's - it's our bond. It's a space we're connected through,"

"Yes, go on," the voice encouraged. It was once again louder, the deep tone reassuring.

"The more you can remember, the better," it said.

"But it's damaged. We've got to...um..."

"Work together to fix it," prodded the voice. "I need you to go to the next car," the voice spoke directly in John's ear now, warm breath tickling him. Excited, John realised his alpha was standing right behind him.

"Don't," said his alpha, "you mustn't turn around."

"But why not?" John said. The dismay that had held him moments before renewed itself.

"This is the thing that always gets us. If you turn around, you'll see me, we'll embrace, we'll be together,"

"That's what I want,"

"Exactly, and for that, it won't be me any longer; you will slip from dreamfasting to an actual dream. You're not good enough at being in control here yet. In essence, you'll pull away from me and move into the bliss of your own desires,"

"Dreamfasting?"

"Think, John. Concentrate. The more you recall, the less redundancy. We cover a little more each night.  You're doing well. You just need to focus your mind-"

"Can you see me?" John asked suddenly. He felt long arms wrap around him from behind in a firm embrace. The sensation brought too many emotions to life, and he gasped, barely choking back a sob.

"Steady-"

"Where are you? You promised you'd come for me!"

"Shhh. I know, I know. I'm coming, I promise you,"

"I don't want to be here! I don't want anything except -"

Sherlock watched as the scenario melted into one simultaneously more abstract and literal, and John slipped away from him into the arms of a spectre of himself. They curled against each other, on the side of a grassy hill, under the perfect shade of a tree. The air was alive with butterflies and soft pollen. Summer sunlight replaced the coldness of the train. The carriage around him shuddered, its motion ceaseless despite the placid nature of the dream John had conjured. Sherlock watched himself hold the young omega and sighed.

"Lucid dreaming is quite challenging under the best of circumstances. You can't really blame him," said Greg.

"I don't," Sherlock said.

"He's young, and in great need... not to mention ill from the failed bonding,"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. A powerful wave of guilt hit him and he retreated a few steps backward into the train. The grass had advanced and lapped at his toes like water. Daisies began to pop up in the side door and windows.

"It must be a place he visited as a child..." Lestrade mumbled at the idyllic scene, "you two always end up there-" Sherlock turned from Lestrade's words and the bleeding dreamworld impatiently. He pushed his way past the D.I. and began to make his way through the car. He looked up at the tangle of black phone cords that spread throughout the space. They were a neural network made of dreamstuff, one that he needed desperately to tap into.

On the other side of the train, the dark and endless sea had begun to lighten, as if dawn were suddenly upon them.

Sherlock stared uneasily at the growing light.

"We have work to do," he said at last, and opened the door to the next compartment.

+++

"Did you hear me, John?"  
John looked at the woman briefly, then gazed back up at the ceiling. He was lying on his cot, trying to remember his dream. His alpha was there, was always there. Parts of it had felt very real. His alpha's voice, his scent, all of it was as vivid as in waking life.   
"John?"

John's eyes flickered back over to the woman. She was standing in the same place, looking at him inquisitively. He had no idea what she'd been saying.  
"No," he said.  
"Are you cold?"  
"No."  
"You're shivering."  
He shrugged. It was always cold in this place, he'd become used to it. Sometimes Tommy would lie against him at night, the two of them sharing body heat. But Tommy had nightmares of his own, and it could be impossible to fall into any kind of deep slumber.  
"I said, I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright." The woman had short blonde hair and a gentle demeanor. There had been a handful of adults who came in to look in on them, to administer medications, dole out food rations, make sure curfew was followed. None of them had called John, or anyone else for that matter, by name. John looked at her more carefully, and decided she was a doctor.

 ****The doctor smiled again, nodded her head conspiratorially towards the far end of the room and the exit.

  
"Come with me," she said.  
  
+++  
  
Dr. Banerjee sat across from him, a solemn look on her young face.  
"Tell me something, anything." Mycroft said. Sherlock had remained unconscious. The encephalitis had subsided, but over the course of the process, he'd slowly but steadily continued to sink deeper into a state of inactivity.

"He's stable, Mr. Holmes. I know it's difficult but we just have to-"

"Coma." Snapped Mycroft.

"Excuse me?"

"Admit it, he's in a coma. We have very different definitions of stable, doctor!"

Dr. Banerjee looked back calmly at him. In all the time she'd spent working on Sherlock, she'd remained unintimidated by Mycroft. It was a rare, and rather heroic thing that he mentally noted as she stared at him impassively through silver framed spectacles. Her black hair was short and pulled back neatly from her face. Composed, thought Mycroft, she was thoroughly composed.

"It's unusual, what's happened," she said, "normally a patient would regain consciousness after the body had healed as far as his has. As he's not waking, we're forced to conclude that he's still healing, repairing damage that's less detectable,"

Mycroft looked at her in horror.

"You're talking about brain damage," he said.

"As I've said, it's unusual, but it's not unheard of. Broken bonds can overload the endocrine and nervous systems. They wreak havoc on the body in ways we still don't fully understand-"

"You are here," said Mycroft icily, "because you theoretically excel at what you do. I demand better from you, Miss Banerjee. I insist on a more proactive approach than 'we don't fully understand', along with passively waiting to see if he wakes!"

The young woman did not blink.

" _Doctor_ Banerjee. I'll thank you to remember that." She said. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Doctor Banerjee took a deep breath.

"Mr. Holmes, I understand you're concerned. Frightened for your brother. You're going to have to trust me. There is hope. He is physically stable, there is consistent brain activity. I wouldn't accept permanent brain damage as a given at this point. As far as treatment goes, we are not simply 'waiting around' as you suggest."

"Then what is your proposed course of action?" Mycroft demanded.

+++

"You may call me Ms. Morstan," she said. They were in a small and tidy office with no windows. She handed John a cup of hot water and smiled.

"I thought you were a doctor," he said.

"I manage this facility's resources," Ms. Morstan said,

"How old are you, John?"

"Fifteen,"

"That's a difficult age, I remember it well," said Ms. Morstan, "and how many siblings do you have?"

"Just one, a sister. Although my mother... She might have another one by now."

"Hmm, yes, I've reviewed your records. Both your parents scored relatively high on the fertility rate when they were your age. It's no surprise you were born a procreant."

John looked at the cup he held, it's heat was slowly moving through his hands.

"And how are you feeling?"

John shrugged, looked away.

"According to your file, you can read," Ms. Morstan said suddenly, "is it true?"

"Yes," John said.

"Here, read this," she said. She handed him the top piece of paper from the file on her desk.

"Recommended daily dose of bambermycin. Increase two-hundred per cent for fourteen days or until symptoms subside. Administer chori- chorionic go-na-dotropin accordingly-"

"Yes, that's enough, that's excellent," said Ms. Morstan, "John, we'd like to you to work upstairs for a time."

"What? What would I do?"

"Well you'll be helping look after the other omegas - keeping them healthy,"

"Everyone here is sick, maybe because it's so cold,"

"Oh. Well, that's in the infirmary. I meant the main population on the breeding floor. You haven't been there yet;  they need things like daily medicines to keep them fit. And we need someone with a good head on their shoulders."

"I want to be a doctor,"

"That's - a very big dream," Ms. Morstan said. She looked at him sympathetically, then thoughtfully.

"Certainly this will be an excellent way to start, John. I shall have you begin immediately,"

John thought of his alpha; John had also told him that he wanted to be a doctor. He'd never really thought about it before that interview - the same interview where his mum had signed him away to this place. Now John only wanted to be with his alpha. Perhaps, John thought, if he pursued the goal he'd declared, it would make his alpha happy - proud. Perhaps, if he did as he said he'd intended, his alpha would finally come and get him. He looked up at Ms. Morstan for the first time. She smiled at him, nodding.

"Ok," John said.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me about your alpha again," Tommy suddenly urged. It was a nightly request, and John could not resist fulfilling it, for his own emotional sake.

"They're training you to be an overseer,"

Tommy whispered, "so you can mind the rest of us,"

"How do you know?"

"That's what Ren was doing, before he got sick," said Tommy. He gave this last piece of information awkwardly, as though confessing something about himself.

John had spent the day learning how to portion medicines. He'd done so in a room similar to Ms. Morstan's office. It had been a good deal warmer than the infirmary. Now he was back and shivering again; when he'd gone to his bed, it seemed colder than ever.

"Tell me about your alpha again," Tommy suddenly urged. It was a nightly request, and John could not resist fulfilling it, for his own emotional sake.

"He's - tall. Big," said John, "with dark hair, and sharp, bright, eyes,"

"What colour are they?"

"Very pale... Blue, almost grey sometimes,"

Tommy nodded. This seemed to be a favourite detail of his, he always asked. Now he was smiling at the vision John was conjuring.

"Tell me what he said, before you came here,"

John stayed silent a moment.

"I had to get on the train to come here, you see, because I was already scheduled to go," he said, "there wasn't any choice,"

Tommy nodded solemnly at John's words.

"My alpha arraigned a private car so we could meet one last time," this, John knew was also one of Tommy's favourite parts. His eyes glowed with emotion whenever John told it.

"We knew it was dangerous, but we had to try and be together, no matter what,"

"Meeting secretly, it's so exciting!" Tommy breathed, "did your parents ever catch the two of you together?"

"No, they still don't know about him," John said truthfully.

"I suppose not, or else he could have made a claim for you," Tommy said sadly.

"He is now,"

"I bet you're right, John, it's probably what's taking so long,"

John fell silent again.

"I'm tired," he said suddenly.

"Only tell me the end bit! What he said just before you were separated!"

John looked up through the high windows, into the night sky. The moon was nearly full. It poured soft light into the complex, making it just possible to see. John wondered if his alpha was looking at the same moon, somewhere else, but still connected in this moment.

"He said - he'd come and get me, promised he wouldn't abandon me,"

Tommy nodded happily.

"He said I was his,"

"I wish I could see him, just once," Tommy breathed, "you're so lucky,"

"Did your parents sell you, too?" John asked abruptly. He hadn't meant to say it, but the question tumbled out before he could stop it.

Tommy did not baulk.

"I was born here," he said.

There was another long pause in the dark.

"When he comes, " John said carefully, "when I leave, maybe you can go with us,"

"John, I - " Tommy's voice had a small tremor in it that threatened to push John over his emotional edge.

"I'll ask him," said John. He gripped Tommy's hand tightly in the darkness. It was difficult for John to know who the gesture was meant for, never mind his words. "it'll be alright, you'll see,"  

+++

"What's wrong," Lestrade asked flatly.

"It shouldn't be here," Sherlock rumbled.

"The red cable?"

"The moon,"

"Oh. Right,"

Sherlock looked curiously at the waxen globe that hung mysteriously inside the train. He shoved his arm into the hole he'd been working from and pulled out a mass of black cables from the wall.

"More?" sighed Greg.

"Neural networks are rather large. Even a daft construct like you should know that," Sherlock teased good naturedly.

"Daft. As a construct - no- a manifestation of _your_ subconscious, I'd like to point out you might have some self esteem problems," Greg countered.

He took the cables from Sherlock and held them. Sherlock began to untangle them gently.

"Naturally. I am, at the moment, in a compromised state in multiple ways after all," he said, "any other insights for me, dear D.I.Y.?"

"Hmph. Only that we're getting tired, but you -"

"Don't care," Sherlock snapped, "believe me, the conscious mind can be just as stubborn as the subconscious. This will get finished," he nodded at the cables held between them, he'd successfully untangled and bundled them together neatly.

"Another lot," Sherlock demanded. He turned to reach into the wall again.

"What about the red one?" Asked Greg.

"Yes, well. I'm not exactly sure what that does yet, but as _it's red_ , I am opting not to touch it at the moment,"

"You know, I could probably tell you what it does, if you'd only-"

Lestrade's words were halted by a sudden growing light. It was accompanied by the sound of the train being thrown into distress. Half a second later, there came a humming so loud it reverberated through everything, including their bodies. The world shuddered, light and sound eclipsing all. Greg covered his ears and ran.

Sherlock stood captivated as the light grew around him. His hands began to glow. The humming grew in his chest. It promised to swallow him whole, that light and sound. It was promised to swallow the world.

He barely felt Lestrade's sudden grip on his arm. The light crescendoed, consuming everything, then faded just as quickly as it had built.

Only the moon remained, solitary in the midst of the empty train car.

+++

 

"We started with Bach," Dr. Banerjee said. She touched the small silver remote and Sherlock's room began to fill with sound.

"Playing pieces for him everyday, with recuperation time in between,"

"Music is your big-"

"-We noticed an immediate change in brain activity," Dr. Banerjee quickly said, "and soon spotted a pattern,"

"What kind of pattern?"

"I suggested the music because I've had success with it in the past, and because I noticed the slight difference of skin on his jaw when we were examining his anteputial glands - he plays the violin, doesn't he?"

"He does, has since childhood. It helps him think-"

Dr. Banerjee nodded enthusiastically.

"One thing became evident - he responded far better to string instruments, so we switched to Vivaldi..."

"And?"

"Obviously, music therapy like this is not considered a conventional treatment. It can even be difficult to prove effective. But in your brother's case, it's remarkable. His brain activity doesn't just improve, it responds to changes in the music in real time, becomes highly active. It mirrors the activity of a healthy person who's playing music, rather than just listening,"

"You're suggesting he's 'performing' along with the piece in his mind,"

"I believe so. In fact, when the music plays, he reads as nearly normal. Were I to analyse his brain activity without knowing his condition, I might assume he were healthy,"

"Healthy. Normal. Then surely he should wake?"

"Yet he hasn't," Dr. Banerjee. She turned the music off.

"Would you define your brother as stubborn?" She asked.

"You have no idea,"

Dr. Banerjee looked at Mycroft solemnly.

"He's in there, but he's not cooperating for some reason,"

"You think his lack of consciousness is intentional? That he's what - hiding in the depths of his unconsciousness?" Cried Mycroft, "absurd!"

Dr Banerjee sighed.

"I’m sure you’ve witnessed belligerence in patients against various medical treatment before, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “Whether it's rejecting therapies or simply resting properly, the body can have its own agenda, be quite willful in its own right. For whatever reason, consciously or not, your brother’s responding _and_ resisting,”

“He must wake,” Mycroft said simply.

"I'm trying to tell you, he's not ready,"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock’s unconscious form unhappily.

“It's not simply a matter of family sentiment. He has sensitive information, which he didn't manage to impart before - succumbing to - this,"

"The broken bond, you mean,"

Mycroft nodded.

"You do understand, Doctor, there's a bigger picture to be addressed. It's been put on hold too long now. He must wake to finish what he was working on,"

He looked to the doctor with the closest thing to humility he could muster. He was never very good at it.

“Please,” he said evenly.

Dr. Banerjee looked back at him, thoughtfully, still undaunted.

“There is something else I’d like to try,” she said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oy, the fic that started super kink driven and morphed into a story... not that there won't be more kink later...


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Broken. Garbage. No one's coming for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2016! The year I finish all these crazy stories!  
> (sorry for the wait) ;_;

The train that was not a train was sleek and modern this time. It rushed smoothly through the night, at an incredible speed. John wandered its cream coloured cars, searching. He knew his alpha was on it somewhere. Doors slid open for him automatically, one after the other. Although this time his alpha wasn't calling him directly, John could instinctively feel his pull. He was very close now, he knew. They were, in a very real sense, together somehow. John was about to walk through the next set of doors, when he heard voices. He turned and looked back. An older man and two women were speaking to one another. They didn't seem to see him.

+++

"Yoshida-San is one of the world's top violinists," Doctor Banerjee said. The musician nodded politely to Mycroft, a solemn expression on her face.

Mycroft felt his lips pull into a thin smile reflexively.

"I see. So you'll be playing for us today," he said. His scepticism was not lost on Doctor Banerjee.

"She is also a neurologist, and one of Oliver Sack's former students."

"Oh?"

"There are some drug therapies we've initiated, in conjunction with the music therapy."

 +++

John opened his eyes.

It was daytime.

"What were you dreaming about?" Tommy's voice asked softly. He was sitting next to John on the bed, looking extra pale.

"My alpha," said John, "we were living together in London." John said.

"Is that where you lived before?" Tommy asked, looking down at his fingers. He laced them together, then fidgeting, pulled them apart, laced them together the opposite way. It was one of several small habits he had; the tiny repeated motions seemed to come more often when they spoke about their lives.

John's brows furrowed, his mind grinding hard against the fading memory.

"It was different," he said, "We were older."

"Oh."

"We were detectives together."

"Police?"

"No, it was more like something from a story..."

Tommy pressed his cheek into John's shoulder. His hair was so light and short, it reminded John of baby chick fuzz.

"I wish I had dreams like that," Tommy sighed.

"You don't have an alpha!" Said an angry voice from across the room.

John turned to find Ren, the dark haired boy, surprisingly close.

"I do," John said flatly, "he's coming for me,"

"You don't, you don't have anyone, you miserable little spastic!" Snarled Ren.

John stared at Ren, unafraid. A moment later Ren lunged, and Tommy was pushed to the floor, the bigger boy standing over him, snarling.

"Ren!" sniffled Tommy pathetically, "don't be angry!"

"Stay away from him!" Shouted Ren. It was impossible to know which of them he was speaking to, but it didn't much matter either.

"You stay away from us," John said calmly. Ren turned back to John angrily.

"What, is your alpha gonna come and get me? Huh?" He said, "Your imaginary bondmat-"

"He isn't!" John insisted, "He isn't imaginary! You're jealous!"

"Stop it, Ren," Tommy said softly.

"Yeah? Then what's his name?" Demanded Ren.

John stopped, a troubled expression suddenly clouding his face.

"Well? You don't know? Didn't he tell you?" Sneered Ren triumphantly, "doesn't he love you? Doesn't he love you enough to _tell you his name?”_

"Ren!" Tommy gasped.

"- Or perhaps not- perhaps he just shagged you then dumped you here, into the garbage-"

"Ren! Stop it!"

"-now that you're broken - you're no omega anymore, and no alpha, nobody would want you anymore, you're used up and no one's coming for yo -"

"Shut up!" John threw himself onto Ren in rage. The two boys were quickly surrounded by the others who watched as they began to tear at each other furiously.

+++

"Why were you fighting?" Mary asked.

Sherlock shrugged sullenly and did not look up.

"Omegas are usually docile, especially in groups," she added. The sentiment hung in the air, almost a question.

"Have you been intimate with either of those boys?"

"No..." Sherlock heard himself say.

"Because jealousy is one thing that we have seen bring it out in sterile omegas, John."

"Bring what out?"

"Violence. Even killer instinct,"

"I haven't killed anyone,"

"No, but you might have, had we not intervened," said Mary.

"I haven't killed anyone, I haven't done anything wrong," Sherlock said belligerently.

"You've hurt another boy quite badly, and I'd like to know why."

"He wouldn't stop,"

"Wouldn't stop what, exactly?"

John closed his eyes.

Ren's cruel words replayed in his mind.

_Broken. Garbage. No one's coming for you._

He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The humiliation and hopelessness of it.

Sherlock pushed against the feeling of despair.

The conditions where his omega was being kept were as bad as he'd feared - a common breeding house, little better than a prison camp. The woman interrogating him was simply doing her job, and would further do as she was told. John was far from safe. He was infertile, sickly, and now officially aggressive. The system had limited responses to such behaviour in their would-be-breeding stock. Sherlock felt a renewed panic grip him. They needed to work faster. Behind Ms. Morstan, Lestrade was pacing.

"Well, well, dreamfasting leaking into waking hours, is it? The bond must be getting stronger," he said.

"Or the signal's just being scrambled - turned into visions," muttered Sherlock, "John doesn't seem to realise I'm here."

Greg scrutinised the desk they sat at.

"We might suss out where this place is, at least-"

"John?" Ms. Morstan asked.

John's eyes snapped open. He'd begun to drift into sleep somehow. He looked in confusion at the silver haired man who stood behind her. He'd not noticed the man come in. The man didn't have a scent. John looked down at his hands.

"I'm not aggressive," he said, "I want to work."

Ms. Morstan looked at him silently.

"Tomorrow we'll move you to the breeding floor," she finally said, "you'll work there, on trial, all week. You're dismissed.”

John nodded, then stood. Ms. Morstan and the man both watched him go.

When he returned to his cot, Tommy wasn't there.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me if you like this one better...


End file.
